Hi everyone! I'm back!
I say 'back' because it's been forever since I've posted anything that was solid Scrubs fanfiction (not a crossover or short drabble), but, as you can see, I've posted THIS.
It's a LOT longer than I intended it to be, but once I started, my mind just kept going.
Anyway, the reason I wrote this was to explore a well-mentioned concept in my other future Scrubs fics, and remembering one, particular line from "My Finale," well….how could I not write something?
I did try writing in a slightly different way—you'll see (hopefully) what I mean when you read this—but I did the best I could, and I think the story as a whole is alright.
Ah yes—this fic is rated 'T' for the use of language, and suicidal themes.
Enjoy!
The last time I saw him was in an out of the way Coffeebucks a good ten miles or so away from Sacred Heart. Not so much that it was completely off the map, but enough so that none of those damned interns would be able to locate me with whatever new whiny-ass problem they managed to get themselves into every five minutes of every day. The most recent ones at the time had yet to catch on that the chief of medicine was not someone to be approached just because Mrs. So-and-so's fever started spiking. Gaaaah first-year interns are always the worst. However, as first years the only upside is they had yet to find out about this place. Which meant for once in who knows how long I was able to get away from the hell-hole people call Sacred Heart and go there. The one place I knew I wouldn't be bothered. The one place I was damn sure no one I knew would be.
Or so I thought.
Actually, I didn't even realize it was him at first. I mean, it's not like I was looking for him or anything, but the kid had a pretty recognizable face. He was one of those people who's photo you could hold from about seven feet away, and still be able to tell who it was, you know? Hard to forget a face like that. Still, I spent the first ten minutes or so completely oblivious to his presence—as I said I didn't think anyone I knew was there—even after I'd gotten that long-awaited latté and settled down in my self-proclaimed chair at the back of the room. And no, I wasn't lost in some fancy little daydream like he often was; I made a visual scan of the area—in the rare chance I'd been followed or something—but my eyes just brushed over him.
All I did see, in fact, were the types of people one usually expects to find in a cut off sanctuary like this: A tight-lipped business man engulfed in his briefcase…. two old timers chatting and reminiscing about their youth….and one guy silently trying to shut out the world as he sat in the corner. That one kind annoyed me, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. Hell, they were just chosen examples of the numerous 'refugees' as I liked to call them hovering around the sheltered café. Nameless faces with nameless jobs who—as was I—were here to do the one thing typical routine of their lives didn't allow them to do.
To get away.
Of course, all it takes sometimes is the eaves' dropping into someone else's conversation for said 'private time' to come to an abrupt end. And wouldn't ya know it, that's what happened to me.
"Number 124?" I heard the man at the counter call out, irritated his re-heally whiny voice had interrupted my train of thought, "Who is number 124?"
I remember silently begging whatever jackass wasn't responding to his order to hurry the hell over there so as to spare me from listening to what I compared to nails on a chalk board. Yeah yeah, it sounds harsh, but life for me at that point was incredibly overwhelming. What with having to involuntarily babysit new doctors and my kids' constant in and out of school activities….you can't really blame me for wanting some peace and quiet.
Anyway, just as I was contemplating what I would do if 'number 124' didn't show, that guy I saw from earlier—the one sitting in the corner—slowly gets out of his seat and heads towards the counter, banging his knee into the 'specials' sign but not really giving a damn. Though I did see his right hand curl into a fist. As I watched him with mild disinterest, my medical mind began to run a diagnostic….an irritating skill I'd acquired after nearly three decades of being a doctor, that for some damn reason I still can't turn off…..the point being, during this 'self-assigned' appointment, it came to my attention that whoever this man was appeared to be kinda sick. There was some discoloration to his skin and his hair looked like it hadn't been washed in I don't even wanna know how long. Not to mention how thin and bony he looked. I came to conclude the guy was either something like HIV positive and didn't know it yet, or had the oncoming of a flu and/or another viral infection….
….I don't know why it didn't come to mind.
Maybe it's because I'd always considered myself as a real doctor; you know, not those nose in the book 'talking is the best form of medication' frauds who think they are.
Or maybe it's because at the time, I didn't realize who he was.
Well, I can't exactly say I was interested in watching the walking germ-express get his order—sick or not, it wasn't any of my business, nor did I want it to be—but one way or another, I found myself listening into the following conversation that took place.
And let me tell you….even today, there's a part of me that still wishes I hadn't.
"Is number 12—"
"Yeah that's me." The man from the corner said, cutting—thankfully—the cashier-guy off. While that was a relief in itself, it wasn't the first thing that caught my attention upon hearing said interrupter speak. It was how familiar he sounded. Now, I couldn't be sure; his voice had been so low and flat it was hard to tell. And though I am far more in shape than most men my age, I'm still….getting on in years, and my hearing isn't—nor was it then—what it used to be.
But that was not the reason I had trouble identifying him.
The man at the cashier signaled to a younger girl behind the counter, who brought the cup of….whatever….to the front, cautioning the customer how hot it was. He surprisingly—though not so much now—ignored her, taking it from her without any means of protection. Or a 'thank you' for that matter. Now the 'thank you' I can see—wouldn't a said it myself to be honest—but picking up a coffee cup that's pretty much the same temperature as the goods inside it is well….pretty stupid….or careless, but the guy seemed to be fully aware of what he was doing. Now it makes sense, but at the time I still didn't recognize him; how was I supposed to know why someone would intentionally risk burning themselves?
Again, you have to remember I never considered it an option.
Not yet anyway.
The cashier shook his head slightly at the other man. "That wasn't very nice." He remarked, handing him his change.
Something like a sharp breath followed, along with a curt, "sorry," as he took the money and shoved it back in his pocket. It was evident in his voice he could care less about possibly offending some stranger he'd never have the pleasure of meeting again. In truth, I probably would have done the same thing. That's—still is, by the way—just in my nature; always has been, always will be.
It wasn't however, in his.
"Hey…." The cashier said suddenly, an expression of recognition of all things forming on his face, "….I know you. You work over at that hospital, right?"
It was clear the man was beaming at the prospect of successfully guessing the man's profession. While that was all very well and good for him, I found the fact that mister 'guy in the corner'—as I'd dubbed him then—was a doctor far more perplexing.
Actually, two separate thoughts were floating through my head. The first being the ever-present oh shit, the interns found me, before I reminded myself there was no way in hell—at this point anyway—they knew where I'd 'disappeared' to. Plus, familiar or not, this guy looked too old to be an intern. Which led to thought number two: if he were a doctor, then what the hell was he doing running around here in his condition? You'd think he'd have some time in his schedule for a self-examination? Or at least book an appointment with someone else? Because come on, the guy was far from looking fine. His reflection should have told him that much….unless he somehow managed to avoid any and all mirrors—windows included—for the past few….
Caught up in my inner monologue, I almost missed the cashier guy's elaboration.
"Yeah….yeah my sister works with you." He went on, still very much amused with himself. I rolled my eyes. "….St. Vincent's right? What'd she say your name was…."
He thought for a moment, and my focus temporarily settled on that name. There were only two people I knew who worked at that hospital….
"Ah! Dorian! That was it!" He exclaimed, eyes lighting up in triumph. "Saw you in one of the Christmas cards last year."
He then proceeded to introduce himself, all cheery and happy-go-lucky….enough to make ya want to hurl. However, I couldn't be more honest when I say that wasn't my prime concern.
"J-JD?" I sputtered, my emotionless wall faltering as I just barely comprehended the identity of the man before me. For someone who's face I could spot from pretty damn near a mile away, it perturbed me a bit that I didn't recognize him. 'Course, that was before he turned around—and by turned I mean jerking in my direction like some crazed jackrabbit caught stealing carrots from ol' McGregor's garden—and I was able to see why.
I mentioned before that he looked a little on the sickly side, right?
Much as I hate to admit it—though more then than now—for once in the thirty years of my career….my diagnosis was….incorrect. Sure, all symptoms pointed to a physical illness….and yeah, I woulda gone on believing it was, too.
If I hadn't known the kid for almost twenty years.
That's what I told myself, but judging by his reaction upon learning of my presence, my assumption was rapidly being disproven.
And it should have been a warning sign.
"D-Dr. Cox." He yelped, squeezing his drink so hard the top burst. I saw cashier guy grimace, imagining, no doubt, the scalding liquid splattered across his own body, instead of the man currently soaked in still steaming coffee.
I flinched as well….but for an entirely different—if it weren't, you can be damn sure I would ne-hever tell anyone—reason.
Right around the time the coffee exploded, his gaze locked with mine. Rather than that glimmer of ecstasy he usually wore on the rare chances we ran into each other….he looked….almost terrified. Each glassy blue pupil had widened to its full extent—glistening with an unknown fear.
It takes a lot to disturb someone like me—having been a doctor for over thirty years, I've seen and done things that would send most people into a catatonic state. Yet….seeing him like that….it….it shocked me to the core. I mean, this was Newbie—though once leaving Sacred Heart he gradually coaxed me into referring to him by his actual name—that girly, daydreamer of a man who followed me around every second of every day for the entirety of eight years…..and for a long time after as well. He was the one person I could….well….harass—much as that makes me cringe to say it now—and still come away with a smile on his face and a better understanding of his 'mentor.' No matter how many times I lost my temper on him, he stuck to me like glue….never fleeing a scenario unless I specifically demanded it.
So when he attempted to run, I was more than a little alarmed.
Perhaps more bizarre; he wasn't even trying to be subtle about it. The second our gazes broke away his eyes darted towards the door, the rest of him trying to keep up. Thankfully, though, the kid never did have a good grasp on the whole 'coordination' thing, and, as he approached his destination, he—in a similar fashion as before—tripped over the 'specials' sign, knocking him off balance and sending him crashing to the ground.
"DAMMIT!" He shrieked, furiously pounding the floor with his fist. Effectively pulling me out of my 'why-the-hell-is-he-running-from-me' stupor, I noticed, briefly, that the previous 'mind your own business' policy was now overruled; all eyes resting warily on JD's hunched form; anticipating his next move. I know, it sounds like something from one of those Japanese cartoons my son used to watch, but if you'd heard the way he swore….how….how violent he sounded, you wouldn't have blamed them for reacting the way they did.
Caught me off guard, that's for sure.
Also confirmed my rising suspicion that whatever was wrong with him might not be related to a physical ailment. Which in turn forced me to get off my ass and go over to him
"Uh….you alright there, JD?" I asked, approaching him hastily. I was incredibly uncomfortable with what I was doing—eighteen years doesn't change the fact that I'm still an emotional cripple—but staring down at the kid; his silent, crumpled form trembling on the ground, I knew he needed help. And, because he tried to run from me….I had to be the one to give him it.
He didn't answer.
Warning sign number two.
Though I ha-ate repeating myself, I did so—on the off chance he didn't hear me, "JD? Are you—"
"I heard you Perry—I'm fine." He snapped, voice laced with an uncharacteristic bitterness that effectively put me off. Sonuvabitch, I mentally growled, face muscles twitching in sudden irritation. A callous laugh penetrated my throat, though I couldn't for the life of me remember voluntarily doing it.
"Yeah, sure you are." I retorted, temper resurfacing.
I was such an idiot back then.
An audible growl was uttered then, though it wasn't by me. I looked down, and flinched—Newbie had coincidentally chosen to raise his head the same time I lowered mine. Now, I've seen some pretty terrifying things in my day….hell, I still live with one of 'em….but when his eyes met mine again—up close and personal this time—there was something in each one that sent an icy chill crawling down my spine.
I wish I could lie and say I was too stupid to identify just what emotions were stirring behind those faded pupils of his—but that'd be an insult to both him, and my intelligence. I knew. I knew the entire time. But as I told ya before, I'm a cripple when it comes to that kind of thing, so I tried my best not to address it. Not yet. First thing to do was to get Newbie up on his feet and out of the way of the still gawking crowd.
As if reading my thoughts, the dark haired man began scrambling to his feet—cursing each time he moved his injured knee.
Kid never learns.
Keeping a straight face, I swiftly stationed myself between him and the door, stating—calm but forceful "We can do this the easy way, or the hard way." My eyes narrowed slightly, anticipating his next action.
"Leave me alone, Perry."
My jaw clenched. "Wrong answer," I informed him, yanking him to upright by his upper arm. It's not often when what goes through my head is the same thing that comes out my mouth—happened so few times in fact, that no other examples come to mind. If I could think of any, I wouldn't be surprised if they also took place around Newbie. He always did manage to bring out the rarities in people….myself included.
Damn him for that.
Hand still latched around his arm, I dragged JD towards my table in the back. Probably shouldn't have done that….but since when did he ever care about privacy? Whenever he'd have a problem, Newbie never showed any trouble expressing it in public. I didn't think this time would be any different….also, my belongings were currently draped across the chair and table; sure as hell wasn't going to leave those behind.
At least, that's what I kept telling myself.
Pulling out the chair opposite mine with my free hand, I ordered him to sit—refusing to release my grasp on him until he understood there was no way out of this.
He sat.
I let go….and took a seat opposite him. For the benefit of the surrounding customers, I assumed a casual appearance; sipping my latte while trying nawt to scowl at the scrawny man before me. Whether or not he was waiting for an invitation, I spoke, keeping my voice low. "Now talk. I know something's up….and I'm—we're—not leaving 'till you tell me what it is."
I leaned back slightly; dropping the ever-present subtle hint that despite the harshness I actually did give a damn about him. He just needed to pick up on it, and I waited until that moment came….the moment I'd have to steel myself in attempts to deal with whatever "emotional rollercoaster" he was currently riding.
The moment never came. Instead, it'd seemed he'd taken my approach—put up a wall and refused to let someone else in, even though it was clearly a bad idea. He was just full of surprises today.
After five minutes or so of this incredibly awkward silence, I'd decided I'd had enough, and was just about to break it with yet another reiteration, when I heard a very faint, "...why do you care….?"
I felt a jolt of something I can identify now as fear. Those words should not have been coming out of his mouth.
"Why do I care?" I snapped, my stomach twisting in a knot, "what kind of a question is that?" The longer I stared at him, at those damned, dead eyes, the more I felt my composure slipping away. Something was wrong with him. Seriously wrong. And I had no idea what it was or how to deal with it. And whenever I'm faced with something I can't deal with, I do what I do best—I started to rant.
"Why the hell do you think I care? Ya come in like that, being a to-hotal jackass—it's not something I can ignore no matter how hard I try….and trust me—I have tried. However, once again your inability to take care of yourself as interrupted the 'me' time I enjoy oh-so-very very rarely and quite frankly, Dorothy—I can't let you get away with that. You may cry or whatever it is you gals do when upset, but no amount of clicking your heels is gonna send you home to aunty Em, mmkay? You're stuck here, so I suggest you stop throwing this little tantrum of yours and—as I ju-hust said—talk."
I kept my eyes on him during my spiel; searching his face for any signs of giving in—waiting for him to come clean and just tell me how the hell he ended up in such a….
"That was a five."
Again with the quiet voice—so low this time that I swear I would have missed it had I not seen his mouth move. "What was that?" I prodded, thinking this was some sort of 'breakthrough' and that I'd finally cracked his shell. "Ya mind repeating those words for me?" I wasn't mocking him this time—I just….hell, what did he mean by that statement? A 'five'? How was I s'posed to make sense of that?
These and a few other thoughts were floating around in my head as I waited for the elaboration.
Instead, I was graced with a small sigh, accompanied by three words I'd heard many times throughout my life….just never from him. "Figures you'd forget."
Looking back on it, that right there was the only correct accusation he made that last day; I did forget. Couldn't recall us once talking about numbers—even on a professional level. It was so….so random—even for Mr. Daydreamer himself. I even thought it was a daydream—one he'd mixed up with reality—happened every now and then. The only real difference was….those other times he'd said something "out of the blue," he'd never been so serious. So….devastated. This time, he had to be telling the truth.
Not wanting to go back on my unspoken promise to help, I wracked my brain, for any given time the number five was used in my presence that didn't involve any of the Todd's stupidity acts.
You can be sure what I dug up, in the depths of my mind, hasn't stopped haunting me since.
"Doctor Cox!"
I groan, turning to meet the all too familiar and peppy voice of my self-dubbed protégé. To my right, I hear Jordan's impatient sigh—expecting me to ignore him and resume our argumentative conversation.
"Since this is my last day, I got you a little something as a thank you…."
The groan is accompanied by an internal eye-roll. Way to be to be dramatic there, Newbie.
"….cuz, in my mind, you're the one who made me the man I am today."
Now I wish I had brushed him off. That was just plain embarrassing. "You can't blame me for that." I reply, defenses heightening.
"No," Jordan chimes in, "that's too mean!"
Newbie keeps talking, eager to explain the present I'm not all that sure I want.
"It's a book of all your rants!"
Say what?
"I always wrote them down." He elaborates, though it was unnecessary, handing me the book.
"Wow." I say, unable to catch myself in time. Oh what the hell, might as well look at the thing.
As I'm thumbing through the pages, Jordan snickering over my shoulder, I can't help wonder how long this actually took to make.
With a further explanation from Newbie, I'm able to get a pretty good idea. "Check it out," he continues, seemingly pleased I'm taking the time to bother with the gift, "pleather bound….I did the calligraphy…."
Yes….yes it's lovely, Abiga—hang on….what're those?
My eyebrow must have risen, for he answers my silent question. "The number next to each passage is a rating system from one to five, depending on how much that particular rant hurt me emotionally…."
He just wouldn't be Newbie without bringing his emotions into a conversation. A little apprehensive I've been pulled into some heart to heart conversation, I turn the page, eyes fixated on the small numbers.
"….one being something I could easily shrug off and…." he pauses, as if his next words are caught in his throat "….five being something that…."
Come on Newbie, I don't have all day.
"….still makes me want to cut myself…."
I reel outta my thoughts so fast ol' Roland Martin woulda been proud.
"….still makes me want to cut myself…."
I thought he was kidding. He'd always been a sensitive guy….but because he bounced back from….well, everything that came his way, I'd come to look at him as this sort of invulnerable character….sort of—and I can't believe I'm about to say this—in the same way he viewed me. It never once came to mind that that statement might….that he might….
"You…." I choked, unable to prevent my eyes from widening to their fullest extent. You meant it that day….didn't you?"
His head bobbed forward a fraction of an inch, signaling we were on the same train of thought. "….yes."
As if I had to ask.
Heart beat escalating, something suddenly dawned on me. "That..." I sputtered "JD, that was ten years ago! You can't honestly still…."
One look at his sunken face stopped me cold. Who was I trying to fool? A rant is a rant and if it hurt him at the time, I didn't want to imagine what it was doing to him now. I found it hard to believe he could sink any lower than he already felt.
Just wish I'd bother to ask him exactly how low that was. Mighta changed things, you know? Instead of forcing him to talk like I was.
Anyway….
After a good minute or two of struggling to find the right words—and trying to get that damned memory out of my head—I'd begun to notice how unusually antsy his hands seemed; every few seconds, they'd switch off, tugging at the sleeve rim on the opposite arm—pulling it down. A bit odd, I decided, after studying them from a time—anxious, too.
I don't know what possessed me to do it—I wasn't one to care for people's quirks and ticks—but I took him on the subject, with the excuse of ending the re-heally heavy silence that settled between us.
"What's with the finger exercises?" I asked, keeping the tone a tad below casual, "You taken up piano in recent years?"
The movement abruptly ceased.
"N-no." He alleged quickly, hands clenched into tight fists on the tabletop. Among other things, the stammer in his voice caught my attention. Wearing the poker face I used to pull out against Bobbo back in the day, I ran another mental analysis on him. That jumpy manner from earlier returned, as he kept fidgeting in his chair. His pupils were dilated; a slight sweat dotting his forehead.
I put two and two together quickly: Newbie was hiding something from me. Something he did nawt want me to know.
So of course I had to find out what it was.
Getting into full 'Coxian' mode, I took a deep breath, preparing myself on a hunch that this was going to get messy.
Ha. That was an understatement.
However, just before my interrogation began, Newbie stood.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" I barked.
Gaze elsewhere, he mumbled, a little frantically, "I need to go—work—can't be late."
I don't know why he didn't think I'd react to that. When in the Coxian mindset, it's absolutely imperative things go exactly the way I want. Ask anyone—they won't disagree. If I lose my temper, start to rant….prevent someone from going where they need to be; it's all the norm, and you should expect no different. Hence why I grabbed the kid's forearm as he tried to escape.
"OW!" He cried, causing the damned bystanders to look our way, "let go!" For a guy in his….condition….he put up quite a struggle. Even thought he'd break free at some point. Probably would have, too, if his sleeve hadn't ridden up and I hadn't seen what was underneath.
I've never had a heart attack before, but I imagine the shock of seeing those bandages on his wrist—thin, white and the occasional red lines poking through—must have been pretty damn close.
I froze, a cold wave of realization washing over me. Using all the strength I could muster into one arm, I yanked JD back around the table, and into his seat. His grunts of protest morphed into short, staggered breaths, his eyes shining with tears—begging me to let him go.
I didn't. Instead, I forced his arm upright, keeping that damned piece of clothing out of the way so he could take a good luck at what he'd done to himself.
"What. Is. This?" I shrieked, ripping the band-aids off to reveal the extent of the scars I'd seen only moments ago. He whimpered, sinking back into the chair and as far away as he could without dislocating his arm.
"Dr. C-Cox….I-I…."
"You what? What kind of damned explanation could you possibly have for cutting yourself?" I didn't care how loud I was—if I was making a spectacle of myself. The world had become a raging buzz of static—it's only inhabitance: myself, and the terrified, jackass of a man opposite me.
"P-please….I-I-I can….explain…."
"Yeah," I snarled, trying to block out the pounding that was my heart echoing in my ears, "You'd better!" I wanted to kill him. To wrap my hands around that chicken neck of his and strangle that sonuvabitch. I mean….what the hell? Why would he….
"Why the hell would you do this?" I asked him, completing the sentence aloud. He squeaked, making a feeble attempt to free himself from my grip. That only made me angrier. "If you don't answer the damned question your arm comes off."
Another squeak. "I-I-I…." He swallowed, face contorting into an agonized expression, "I d-don't know!" A few tears escaped, rolling down his ashen cheeks one by one. "I just….everything j-just…." His voice trailed off, unable to finish what I had hoped to be an explanation.
Okay, Perry, I thought—my damned conscience gracing me with it's rare presence—time to change tactics. I was scared shitless—if ya haven't guessed with all the shouting, swearing and name calling—but he didn't know that. Nor could he—in whatever the hell state of mind he was in—process it. I had to try something else. Suppressing my anger as best I could, I leaned forward—addressing a problem that had been bothering me since the removal of the bandages.
"How long?" I inquired, voice low but still dangerous.
"….w-what?"
"How long has this been going on?" I put him way out of his comfort zone with that one, but it was a question that needed to be asked. Some of the lines decorating his wrists….not all of them were white, and not all of them were scars. They undoubtedly would be, at some point, but currently held the appearance of scabs….and a few seemed even rawer.
"N….not…." he began, looking anywhere but directly at me, "….n-not all t-that long….."
Screw new tactics. I jerked his arm back, forcing him forward. Kid wasn't going to lie on my watch. "Don't fuck with me, Newbie," I hissed, "how long has this been going on?"
For a moment, he said nothing; sitting there stunned, mouth hung open slightly. I hadn't called him 'Newbie' aloud for years. And while that may have been an accident, it had the desired effect; the two of us slipping back into our old doctor/protégé routine. Not sure if that made it easier or not, but he seemed considerably calmer once he recognized we were no longer 'equals.'
"Since….since that day…." He murmured quietly, finding the table extremely interesting.
Another wave hit me; this one out of disbelief. "That day?" I echoed, the knot in my stomach twisting further, "you mean the….the day you left Sacred Heart?" Each word felt like lead as it passed through my lips; he hadn't worked at that hospital for….
"W-well….not exactly."
"What do you mean? You either have been doing….that….or you haven't."
He sighed, but refrained from looking up. "For the first few years after I left, it was great. Everything was….was how it's supposed to be, you know?"
I didn't, but I let him continue.
"But….but then things….changed." A cold, hoarse noise emitted from his throat; whether a laugh or a choke, I couldn't tell. "It wasn't so bad at first," Newbie went on, his free hand drawing circles on the table, "just….once every few months or so."
Every few months? That's still more often than I was comfortable with.
"….I thought…."
"You thought what?"
His voice cracked. "I thought I could h-handle it."
I loosened my grasp around his arm, strangely satisfied with the fact he seemed truly ashamed with himself. Though it was rhetorical, I asked, "But you couldn't, could you?"
His head shook, hair falling in front of his face. "No." Taking a strangled breath, his shoulders sagged.
"Newbie….why….why didn't you get help?" I said after realizing he'd finished his confession. "You work at a hospital for cryin' out loud. There are people there who could have—"
Again with the head shake. "I couldn't do that. Do you know how many people would….if they knew that I..."
My turn to sigh, I ran my free hand through my hair. "Newbie, at some point you gotta stop caring about others and just take care of yourself for once." I paused, and to my relief he'd finally raised his head. "I thought you'd learned that by now."
He shrugged, and for the first time that day, I saw a glimpse of my old mentee. The real Dr. John Dorian. "Guess you can't teach an old dog new tricks, huh?" He said sadly.
I returned it with a small smile. "Bullshit. Anyone can change, Newbie….hell, I'm living proof of that. But you gotta want it. These things don't just happen on their own." I cast him an 'I'm-talking-about-your-problem-so-pay-attention' look, to which he responded with a sharp sniffle. I let whatever comment I'd prepared regarding how 'feminine he was to be crying' slide, choosing instead to relinquish my hold on his arm; an act I'd hope he'd translate into trusting him again.
He seemed to; when I let go, he remained seated.
"Now listen here," I began again, now that he was relaxed—more so than before anyway, "You have to do something about this, understand?"
"I—"
"You don't want help from St. Vincent's? Fine. Then you—"
"Not Sacred Heart, either."
"Well I figured that much, Louisa. Hell, you've already got Barbie to deal with; can't imagine the rest of your gal pals reacting any better, right?"
At the mention of his wife, he'd gone back to being withdrawn—a flicker of regret flashing in his eyes. But with everything going on then, I simply misinterpreted the emotion as anxiety for the plan I was assigning him.
Three strikes and I'm out.
"Here's what you're gonna do: There's a psychologist's office about an hour or so from where I live," I pulled a pen from my pocket and scribbled the address on a napkin "It's out of the way, and your chances of being recognized are next to none." I checked to make sure he was taking this in. "Now, pay attention. It's of the utmost importance you do this, mmkay? Not for me—hell, I couldn't give a damn about that place anymore—but for you. You have a problem, and it needs fixing. The only way that's gonna happen is if you man up and take charge."
I handed him the napkin. "I expect a report on how everything goes." I informed him.
Still straight-faced he agreed, "Sure."
Ten years ago, bile would have gathered in my throat at the thought of patting his shoulder. I still cringed, but it wasn't nearly as bad. "That's my Newbie."
When my pager went off and we parted ways, I honestly thought he was going to take my advice. That he really, truly wanted to get help. Wanted to change.
I never expected the call from Elliot, a month later, telling me he was dead.
"What?" I shriek into the phone, clutching the piece of technology so hard I heard it crack, "what do you mean 'JD's dead'?"
"I….I…." she blubbered on the other line, "I didn't see him come in last night. H-His shift ended later a-and I was a-already—"
"Just get to the damn point!"
"This morning when I went to t-the b-bathroom….the….the door w-was locked…."
"And you didn't think this was unusual!"
A harsh sob came from the other end, "I-It happens sometimes….t-that's why we keep hair pins in the h-hallw-way…."
"Barbie!"
"He was lying on the floor, Perry!" She wailed, with misdirected anger, "His wrists were cut open and there was blood everywhere!"
My heart stopped, breath caught in my throat.
A suicide.
"Did….did he leave a….a note?" I ask weakly, my surroundings blurred in a watery haze.
"N….no." She choked. "I….I only f-found the blade…."
A long pause fell between us—punctured only by Elliot's anguished sobs.
"….I'll be right there." I said numbly, then hung up.
No one saw it coming.
Not me, not Barbie….not even Ghandi. I wish I could say it was because he did a fantastic job at hiding it….but that isn't true. There were signs. Many of which I just mentioned. But….even before that….things he did or said….the proof was all right there. And yet we sat idly by, accepting the illusion of a man we chose to see as the real JD.
A superficial, eternally optimistic man whom we could always go to; always rely on. A man who, despite all the crap tossed his way, would smile through it all unfazed. Untouched. Un….human.
Some friends we turned out to be.
To make it worse, none of us knew the reason he did it until nearly six months after his death. The only clue we had was his lack of a suicide note, meaning whatever the cause, he didn't want us to know.
Naturally, we went on to assume we were the cause. Spent the better part of that month doing one of two things: either isolated in depression, blaming his death on ourselves, or shifting it over to someone else—usually involving a shouting match over the phone….or in person, depending on the situation. That didn't happen very often; after Newbie'd gone and killed himself, the will to visit anyone he'd known personally quickly flickered out and died.
That was five years ago. While it's been better, we still don't see each other like we used to. Mostly on holidays, or birthdays….if even that. Actually, seems the last time our entire 'gang' got together as a whole, was about two months after the funeral, where I damn near drank myself to death. I know, I know; not the smartest of moves—'specially after all the kid had done from me. You'd think I owed it to him not to drown myself in alcohol. But I couldn't help it. I….I felt betrayed, to be perfectly honest. Tried to give him help and what does he do?
Still….one piece of good came out of it. During my hospitalization, the Janitor—don't give me any of that "Glenn Matthews" crap….he's still "The Janitor" in my mind—came for a visit. And brought a little present with him. A worn, reasonably torn journal with a faded unicorn on the cover. Newbie's diary. Ol' Lurch went on to explain how he 'rescued' it before the St. Vincent staff had JD's locker cleaned out. While I was outright baffled how—no longer working as a janitor—he'd managed to break into a hospital that wasn't his former one without being caught, he solemnly told me to look at the most recent entry. Not in a position to do much else, I did.
With the turn of a page, the long-awaited answer to our question was revealed. And for the first time in eighteen years, I saw a glimpse of who the real JD actually was.
February 25, 2019
That's it. I can't fucking do this anymore. My home life sucks, work's gone down the drain….and no matter what I do, no one listens to me! Oh I've tried—more times than I'll admit, but they don't care. Elliot's too tied up with whatever shit Sacred Heart's dishing out to even lend an ear whenever we manage to see each other. It's always "me, me me!" Not once as she asked ME how I feel! Doesn't she care anymore? Ha. Yeah right. Our marriage has become nothing more than 'I love yous' scribbled on sticky notes in the morning and climbing into bed next to an already sleeping spouse at night. And she expects me to listen to her. Dammit, she's not even around to pick up Hannah anymore! Says I don't spend enough time with our daughter. That my son is taking up too much of my life. Like it's my fault Kim's always going on those vacations with Sean and her kids.
Well I've had it. Between Elliot, Kim, and those fucking interns, I can't get a moment's peace. There's always someone—somewhere—who needs something. And they always have to come to me.
And Dr. Cox wonders why I haven't called. Well SORRY, Perry! It's kinda hard to make a progress report when you're stuck in a living hell!
He's probably not wondering at all. Probably doesn't give a damn. No one else does. Not even Turk. That surgeon bastard is too busy being all high and mighty as chief to pick up the phone. To spare some time for his "vanilla bear." Looks like our guy love didn't hold after all.
I'm tired of this nightmare. I want it to stop. I want….I want to shut out the damn pain once and for all. There's nothing stopping me.
I've run out of things to live for.
-John Dorian
I closed the book; a cold, hard lump lodged halfway down my throat.
"….still makes me want to cut myself…."
Why didn't I take those words to heart?
The first 'flashback' is a scene from "My Finale," which I do not own.
Roland Martin is a fisherman.
Please review! This took so long to write, and I'd really appreciate some feedback!